


Written in the Mind

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Case Fic, M/M, Story: The Adventure of the Speckled Band
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-12-12 04:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20985254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: Holmes' most recent case forces Watson to contemplate his past, his ruined career, and his future. An AU retelling of The Adventure of the Speckled Band, set in the same universe asWritten in the Blood. Written for the October Spooktacular event over on Watson's Woes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Написанное разумом](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21733027) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)
  * Inspired by [Written in the Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1768048) by [methylviolet10b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b). 

> Warnings: Magical realism AU. Mentions of injury, violence, depression, having to start over. Completely spoils The Adventure of the Speckled Band. Probably makes more sense if you've read Written in the Blood first. Questionable plotting, but then again, given the source material, that's not saying much.
> 
> This story is completely written and will be posted in parts throughout October. Happy Spooktacular!

“I am very sorry to wake you, Watson.”

I heard Holmes’ words, and even understood them after a fashion, but I was not entirely certain I was awake. I had been very deeply asleep, in that profound torpor that comes only after a night of restless, broken, dream-riddled slumber. “What is it?” I managed at last.

“A client.”

I glanced at the clock by my bedside. It was just past seven in the morning. “At this hour?”

Holmes chuckled. “You look as scandalized as Mrs Hudson did when she knocked upon my door. But it is indeed a client, a young woman who will not be denied. I thought you might be interested to hear what she had to say. Any caller who arrives at this hour is likely to have something interesting to put before us.”

I could not help but smile at that. Holmes had always been generous in sharing his cases with me. Since the conclusion of the case with Inspector MacPherson, however, where I had defied my curse in order to save Holmes’ life, he had been particularly determined to include me. It was one of the ways in which Holmes showed his appreciation, and I treasured each instance. “I will join you gladly. Just give me a few minutes to put on some clothes, and I will be right down.”

“I’ll wait, and we can go down together.”

That seemed slightly strange to me, but I wasted no time in wondering at it. I dressed as hastily as I could, and within a few minutes we entered the sitting-room together. I saw a woman sitting in the chair closest to the fire. She was dressed all in black, and heavily veiled, as befit a lady in deepest mourning.

“Good morning, madam,” Holmes greeted her. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Doctor Watson, to whom you may speak as freely as to myself.” The woman started to stand, but Holmes stayed her with a gesture before seating himself in the chair opposite. “No, pray, do not stand; stay close to the fire. I can see that you are shivering. It is a bitter morning to travel such a long distance, as I see you have by the traces of mud the dog-cart left upon your jacket, and the return train-ticket in your glove.”

“I have travelled far this morning, you are right about that. But it is not cold which makes me shiver.” The woman’s voice was soft, and unexpectedly low in pitch. There was something strange about it, some edge of desperation and fatigue that spoke loudly to my instincts as a doctor.

“What is it, then?” I could not help but ask.

She flinched slightly as I spoke and drew back in her chair before bringing a hand to her hat. “It is fear. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she spoke, revealing a young face prematurely aged by sorrow and strain, and hair streaked heavily with grey. Her eyes darted around the room, constantly seeking out something even as she continued her story. “It is the sure and certain knowledge that I am soon to die, although I cannot prove anything. That is the true horror of my situation, Mr. Holmes. My suspicions all depend on small things, trivial matters that others have dismissed as simply nerves and foolish fancies. But you, Mr Holmes – your reputation is of a man who can see what others cannot or will not; who can throw light on the darkest matters, and provide answers where all others have failed. If you cannot help me – help guide me through the dangers I sense around me – I fear I shall shortly join my sister in an early grave.”

Holmes leaned forward in his seat. “Go on. Tell me what troubles you, and I will do my best to assist, if I can.”

The woman – Helen Stoner – wasted no time in telling her tale. At first it seemed a sad, but unfortunately common one: a mother dead too young, an ill-tempered stepfather burdened by an estate crumbling around them, a forced retreat into a lonely country existence, with only a sister for comfort and companionship.

Then her story took a strange, uncanny turn. Her sister, so near to marriage, died under the most bizarre of circumstances. The mysterious whistle – the scream – the strange utterance – the clang of metal; the presence of gypsies on the property; the impossibility of foul play in the face of locked doors and barred windows; yet the sinister, unexplained nature of that death, was chilling, and deeply puzzling. As related by our client, I could not fault the inquiry that eventually ruled her sister’s death as a sad, inexplicable, but ultimately natural event. It was clear from what Miss Stoner said – and did not say – that the coroner had investigated matters very thoroughly, as much from dislike of her stepfather and a general bias against the gypsies as from due diligence in the serious matter of a young woman’s death. Eventually, however, he had no choice but to rule her death a natural, and not a criminal, matter; there was no mark upon her, no trace of poison found, and Miss Stoner’s own testimony made it clear that her sister had been alone, securely locked inside her own room, at the time of the first alarum.

It was impossible that her sister’s death could have been caused by another, but given everything, I couldn’t fault our client for not believing the same. She seemed convinced that her sister had died of fear, but what could have terrified a woman to death while locked in her own room, I could not imagine, and neither could Miss Stoner, despite having thought about it nearly every day, and continuing to wear mourning for her lost sister. I certainly believed Miss Stoner did the right thing by hurrying to Holmes when she, too, heard that mysterious whistle while sleeping in her dead sister’s room this past night. Just hearing her story made me uneasy in a way that I could not readily explain.

Holmes, too, looked deeply intrigued by Helen Stoner’s story. Unsurprisingly, he saw more than I did. His gentle questioning coaxed further details from her: the sudden stonework repair that had forced her from her own room into her dead sister’s room; the impossibility of keeping any long-term servants in the house; and Doctor Roylott’s passion for keeping ‘Indian’ animals, sent to him by a correspondent. 

“A cheetah and a baboon?” I echoed uncertainly.

Holmes spared me a sharp glance, but fortunately Miss Stoner interpreted my question as a request for confirmation, nothing more.

“Your stepfather has fond memories of India, then?” he asked, redirecting Miss Stoner’s attention.

Her expression clouded. “No, I would not say so. He made his career in India, true, and met and married my mother there; but India was the ruin of him, too. The hot tropical climate inspired the first fit of what we later learned was a family trait of unpredictable, horrific tempers. I don’t remember the events myself very clearly, as I was just a child, but we had some robberies at our house, and suspicion fell on the butler. My stepfather beat the man very badly, and then refused to help him or heal him. The man died shortly thereafter.”

My breath caught. Being a doctor does not preclude a man from killing. I knew this better than most, having served in Her Majesty’s armed forces. But to fire on forces advancing and firing on you is one thing. To kill a man with your bare hands… A trained doctor knows the damage caused to a body as soon as he touches bare flesh. It is part of our basic training, but even more, it is often something that comes instinctually to us long before we ever set foot in a lecture hall or classroom. To ignore that knowledge, inflict mortal harm with the self-same hands and skills trained to heal wounds, not inflict them… I had heard of such cases, a few of them. Usually the doctor was too drunk or otherwise out of his head to know what he was doing, and no one was more horrified than he when he came to his senses and realized what he had done.

“He was sentenced to fifteen years of imprisonment. It might have been a capital sentence. My mother told us that he was spared because he showed true remorse, and because he swore an oath to give up medicine, as he had proved himself unworthy of it. From that day to this, he has never worked as a doctor again.”

I winced, knowing all too well what it was to be a doctor and unable to practice. It was a far more profound punishment than any that could be handed out by a court of law. To have known the skill and power to save lives, to heal, and then be compelled by fate, chance, or circumstance to give it up: it is a torment, as I well knew. Still, Roylott’s self-inflicted punishment was a better outcome than it might have been. There are very rare, monstrous individuals who are born and trained with the talent to heal – and yet find pleasure in the suffering of others. Such twisted creatures can and have done immeasurable harm.

“We grew up quietly in India. We were somewhat isolated by circumstances, and even more so in that my mother chose to keep us with her rather than send us back to England to boarding school. She felt it important that we remain together, so that she would not become a stranger to us, and even more importantly, that we should know our stepfather as much as possible. We visited him every week. I cannot say we knew him very well, but he was at least not an entire stranger to us when he was finally released.

“Not a stranger, but not the man my mother had married, either. He had been a successful doctor, well along the way to being wealthy enough to eventually return to the remnants of his family estate and restore it. All that was lost. Once released from prison, he had to begin all over again and find a new career. Fortunately he still had some friends left from his early days in India. A former patient hired him as a factor for his export business. He worked with the man at the company offices in India for several months to learn the particulars. I remember that as a particularly happy time, even though there was some friction with our friends. Not all of those in our small social circle were ready to accept our stepfather back into their midst or were comfortable with his change in circumstances. But he persevered and won many of them over. He won us over too, Julia and I, and we him. Despite having to work many long hours at the business, he always made time for us in the evening, asking us about our day and helping us with our lessons.” Miss Stoner’s strained face eased slightly as she recounted this, clearly remembering simpler times. “Eventually his benefactor deemed him ready, and we all were sent to London, so my stepfather could act as factor and agent for that side of the trade.”

“That sounds as if it was an ideal arrangement for all concerned,” Holmes remarked.

“It might have been so. But we had only been settled in London a few months before we received word that the owner of the business had died. The business was thrown into confusion, and no sooner had it started to settle than it became clear that the new owner did not have the confidence in my stepfather that his late benefactor did. It was not at all clear that he would be kept in his position. Even then, it’s possible things might have worked out favourably, for I believe my stepfather had done fairly well by the company up until that time. But it was just at this time that my dear mother was killed in a railway accident.” Miss Stoner bit her lip. “My sister and I were devastated, naturally, and our stepfather was never the same. He gave up all idea of London, of continuing to try and forge a new path in the world, and instead retreated with us to Stoke Moran. He became quite bitter about everything, India especially. I have heard him say that India is like a beautiful woman who promises everything but leaves you with nothing.”

“And yet he keeps exotic animals. Does he have any other keepsakes of India?”

“Nothing beyond a few carpets, and a walking-stick given to him by his benefactor when we left for England.”

“Hm.” Holmes sat for a few moments in silence, looking at nothing in particular, before refocusing his attention on Miss Stoner. “These are very deep waters. There are a thousand details I should like to know before I would feel comfortable giving you advice on this matter. Yet there is no time to lose. If we were to come down to Stoke Moran today, would there be any chance of seeing the property without your stepfather being aware of it?”

“Why yes. My stepfather is coming up to town today, in fact, on business that cannot be delayed. He said he expected it might take all day, but he intends to return home before nightfall. It was one of the reasons I dared leave so early, for he is unlikely to note my absence in his own preparations to travel. I do not expect him to return to Stoke Moran before evening at the earliest. I can return on the noon train and be ready for you at any time this afternoon.”

“That will give me time to perform a few inquiries of my own here in the city. But I am at your disposal immediately, should you prefer to return to Stoke Moran sooner.”

“No, I really must purchase a few things while I am here. It will also provide proof of the necessity of my errand, should my stepfather have noticed my absence this morning after all.” Miss Stoner looked slightly embarrassed at her admission.

“I understand why you might feel such stratagems necessary.” Holmes reached out and pushed back the lace cuff that fell over Miss Stoner’s right hand, exposing her wrist. Black finger-marks ringed it, the imprints of four fingers and a thumb, from a hand far larger than Miss Stoner’s own. My own wrist ached to see it, while my professional side immediately thought of the bruise ointment I had mixed up for Holmes last week. I still had some in my doctor’s bag.

The poor lady coloured deeply. “He does not always know his own strength, particularly when he is suffering from one of his tempers.”

To my eye, it seemed clear that Miss Stoner was the one who had suffered from her stepfather’s temper, far more than her stepfather could have. It said something about her generosity of spirit, perhaps, that she could defend him so to us. Or perhaps it was another kind of defence – one against pity that might only exacerbate the pain she felt from the physical harm.

Holmes seemed to take the latter view. “You have been cruelly used,” he said gently. “And you have been very brave to come here to us. Will you not stay for breakfast? It is still very early, and you cannot have broken your fast before travelling here to London.”

“I thank you, but no. I feel refreshed just from having spoken with you and knowing you will come down this afternoon. I will hurry through my errands this morning all the better for it.” She rose, thanked us again, and departed swiftly enough that I found myself blinking, wondering if I had imagined the past half-hour.

“Well, Watson? What do you make of it?”

I smothered a yawn. “I wouldn’t dare venture any opinion at all, at least not until I’ve had some tea. Or better yet, coffee. There is a great deal to consider, and I feel only half awake.”

Holmes chuckled. “I wouldn’t mind a cup myself.”

Mrs Hudson not only sent up tea and coffee, but breakfast. Holmes only took a slice of toast to go with his tea, but I made up a full plate from the many delicious dishes on offer. The fare included kippers, which were a favourite of mine, and a small dish of gooseberry jam, which I also liked very well.

“I see Mrs Hudson is pleased with you,” Holmes remarked, taking a spoon and adding a small amount of the jam to his toast.

Unlike most of his deductions, I was able to follow this one easily enough. “I compounded a new cream for her to try on her bad wrist.” After dropping a plate, Mrs Hudson told me that she’d always had a wrist that ached when the weather changed, but recently the pain and inflammation had become almost constant. She allowed me to examine it. I could feel the inflammation in the joint, although I could not do anything directly to address it without triggering my curse. But I could, and did, use the knowledge I’d gained about the source of the pain to concoct a more specific remedy than the one she’d been using previously.

It wasn’t much compared to what I’d once been able to do, but it was something, and Mrs Hudson was the better for it. That reminder was as welcome as the kippers and the gooseberry jam.

“It is good to see she appreciates your efforts.” Holmes’ words echoed my thoughts. “I can only hope to be so fortunate someday.”

I smiled, unable to resist a bit of humour. “How would you be able to tell? Perhaps if Mrs Hudson only brought up toast for breakfast?”

Holmes stared for a moment, and then threw back his head and laughed. “I am not quite so devoid of – what in the name of the Devil!”

Holmes’ outburst was well-merited. The door to our sitting-room crashed open with a bang. Standing in the doorway was one of the largest men I had ever seen. His top-hat brushed the edge of the door-frame, and his shoulders nearly filled the entire opening. Everything about him bristled: his hair, standing out in a wild cloud below his hat and billowing up from his bushy eyebrows; his sideburns, wiry and full; his beaky, broken-veined nose; the rumpled cloth of his cravat; and even the laces on his boots; all radiated out from his person as if energized by the waves of ill-temper rolling off of him. His skin was weather-beaten and freckled with sun and age. Deep lines radiated out from his narrowed eyes, crevasses formed on his furrowed brow, and similar deep gouges surrounded his mouth as his lips drew back in a sneer.

“Which of you is Holmes?” he demanded in a much quieter voice than his appearance at the door suggested. It was a low voice, with a snarl and a sneer both in it. It sounded rough, like a drill sergeant I once knew: as if it was more often used for shouting than for speaking in normal tones.

Holmes gently set his half-eaten toast down on his plate. “That is my name, sir, but you have the advantage of me,” he replied quietly, seemingly at his ease.

My friend’s calm only seemed to irritate the man further. “My name is Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran,” he thundered.

Holmes smiled politely. Nothing in his demeanour suggested that he had ever heard the name of the man or of the place. “Pray take a seat and tell me what brings you to call so early in the morning.”

“You cannot put me off,” Roylott retorted. “I know my step-daughter has been here. I traced her. What did she tell you?”

My friend raised an eyebrow but said nothing. His silence only enraged Roylott further.

“What has she been saying to you? What lies?” He stepped closer, staring at Holmes with unbridled animosity. “You think to refuse me? I know all about you! You are Holmes, the professional busy-body, always meddling in the affairs of others!”

Holmes’ smile broadened, amused.

“Holmes, the Scotland Yard jack-in-office!”

My friend chuckled, but his eyes flashed. “You really have the most entertaining opinions. Do close the door behind yourself when you go, for there is a most bitter draught.”

“I will leave when I have had my say, and not a moment before. Don’t think you can intimidate me or meddle in my affairs! I am a dangerous man to fall afoul of.” He lunged forward and before either of us could react, seized the poker where it rested by the fireplace. I shot to my feet, certain that he meant to attack Holmes. Instead, Roylott grasped the pointed end of the poker with his other hand. A fierce look of concentration creased his face, and his arms tensed. At the same moment I felt a strange shiver in my arm, like burning ice, run down from my bad shoulder to my elbow. Slowly but inexorably, the poker bent within Roylott’s grip until it was curved over, nearly folded in half.

He threw it down on the hearth with a clatter. “There! See that you stay out of my way, or I shall do the same to you.” With a final sneer, Roylott strode out of our sitting room, slamming the door in his wake.

Holmes threw back his head and laughed. “What a very interesting and impertinent person this Roylott is! Had he chosen to stay, I might have told him so to his face, as well as demonstrated that he is not the only one who can bend steel to their whim. I might not have his bulk, but I believe I can manage a poker as well as he.” So saying, he picked up our ruined poker, and with a single, fluid movement, unbent it from its twisted shape. It was no longer perfectly straight, but it was at least usable. He looked up at me with a grin, which quickly morphed into a frown. “Are you quite all right, my dear fellow?”

I realized I was massaging my bad shoulder with the opposite hand, and quickly stopped. “Just a twinge. It’s nothing.” And it was nothing; the strange pain had vanished as quickly as it had come. It was not the first time my old wound had ached without warning, and undoubtedly it would not be the last. I wished I could believe that it would ever stop troubling me, but I knew that would likely happen only when I was in my grave.

“Hm.” I could tell Holmes did not entirely believe me, but fortunately he was too distracted by the problem at hand to pursue it. “Traced her,” he muttered. “That fiend said he traced our client here. But how?”

“I suppose he must have followed her.”

“Without being noticed, all the way up from the country? It is one thing to follow someone in London, with all the street-traffic and distractions to help hide you, although even that presents its own challenges. But to follow a frightened young woman who starts at every shadow down a country lane to a train station and go entirely unobserved?” Holmes shook his head. “Even I might have difficulty achieving such a feat.”

Put that way, it did sound most unlikely. Something nagged at my memory, and I glanced down at the notes I had taken during the interview. It was a habit I was doing my best to develop, taking notes for the cases where Holmes kindly included me. It was useful to me, and seemed sometimes so to him. So it proved again. “She did say that her stepfather planned on traveling to town this morning. Perhaps he left earlier than she had thought, and saw her at the train station, either when she embarked or when she arrived in London.”

Holmes’ frown turned thoughtful. “That is a reasonable theory. Certainly far more reasonable than the idea he could have followed her all the way from the house. I remain surprised that he managed to escape her attention, but it is just possible. If he were close enough in the London crowd to hear her give the address to the cab-driver… Such mischances are rarer than fiction would have them, and yet they do happen.” He shrugged. “We shall proceed with your theory for the moment. But that reminds me – you reacted quite noticeably when Miss Stoner said Roylott kept a cheetah and a baboon. You asked her to confirm it. Why?”

“I was surprised.”

“Yes, that was moderately obvious. I ask again – why?”

“Because those are not Indian animals. They’re African.”

Holmes’ brows drew down. “Are you certain of that?”

“About the baboon, certainly. About cheetahs… I heard that some rajahs keep cheetahs as pets, but they are certainly far more common in Africa than in India.” Not for worlds would I admit to Holmes that my knowledge of these animals originally came from the adventure stories I read, both as a child and as an adult. As a boy I had dreamed of going on African safari, and I had researched the subject as best as our school library would permit. As a man I had all but dismissed such ideas – until as a wounded, pensioned-out soldier with too much time on my hands, I remembered those long-ago daydreams. I had spent time with the collections of two different circulating libraries, revisiting the yellow-backed adventure novels that had first captured my youthful fancy, and discovering new delights, some equally fantastic, others more scholarly. All that was beside the point; what mattered now was information. “India has a number of monkeys, some quite large. Perhaps Miss Stoner is simply confused about its species.”

“It seems an unlikely point upon which to be uninformed, given that she must live with the creature to some degree, but we must suppose it possible. Perhaps we shall be so fortunate to catch a glimpse of the beast ourselves, and better establish the truth of the matter with our own eyes.” He shrugged, dismissing the matter for the moment. “In the meantime, we have a few hours to spare. I shall walk down to the courts and see what more I can learn about Roylott, Stoke Moran, and the general state of his affairs.”

“I believe I will take a stroll towards Doctors’ Commons,” I replied, the idea forming in my mind even as I said it, “and if I have no luck there, I shall stop by my club. I may be able to learn more about Roylott from some of my colleagues.” I had more avoided than sought out the company of those with whom I had once shared a profession and calling since my return to London. In many ways, it was painful to me to be among those whom I could no longer truly belong. However, the cause was sufficient, and to my surprise, I did not find myself as reluctant as I expected. Perhaps it was my successful healing of Holmes despite the curse, but I no longer felt as reluctant as I had to seek out medical professionals and ask their advice.

“Capital!” Holmes clasped me lightly on one shoulder. “Pack a bag and take it with you, in case your inquiries prove fruitful and you do not have time to return to Baker Street before we must catch a train at Waterloo. Given that we know Roylott is already in London, we cannot trust that he will stay as late as Miss Stoner said. If you would also bring your revolver with you, I would be much obliged. It might prove useful, or at least a deterrent, against a man who likes to burst into other people’s homes and wreak violence on their fireplace pokers.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson and Holmes catch a train and share what they've learned thus far.

Hours later, I met Holmes on the Waterloo platform. We were fortunate in being able to catch a relatively direct train to Surrey, and in securing a compartment completely to ourselves. Holmes began to relate his discoveries as soon as we pulled out of the station.

“I have seen the will of the late Mrs Roylott,” he said, drawing out a handful of written notes from his coat pocket and laying them on the seat. “It was interesting that she had one at all; but she had considerable wealth in her own right, as well as an income for her lifetime from her first husband’s will, and I imagine she received advice that matters would be better handled with a direct document.”

“That explains how she could continue to live comfortably and raise her daughters while Roylott was in prison. She had means of her own.”

“And used them well,” Holmes said, a faint note of praise in his tone. “Her income grew rather than the reverse in the years Roylott was confined, as far as I could learn. Roylott need not have sought employment after his release at all; her income could have carried on supporting the household as it was in India. It was a modest but respectable establishment. But that is neither here nor there. It took a great deal of calculation to understand the will’s true impact, financially speaking, for all that it was a relatively simple-looking document. Mrs Roylott left her property to her husband for the duration of his life, with each daughter to receive an income of 250 pounds per year from the estate upon the occasion of her marriage, and all remaining property to be split between the twins after their stepfather’s demise. As her property was chiefly in investments, I needed to learn how much those investments were worth at the time of her death, and what they were worth when the first daughter died, and what they are now. When she died, the annual income from her investments was somewhat over 1100 pounds.”

“So if both daughters married, it would essentially halve Roylott’s income.”

“Exactly. And that was before the fall of agricultural prices in the last three years. The annual income from the investments is now little more than 750 pounds per annum.”

“Financial ruin if both daughters married.” That was painfully clear.

“Even one marriage would cripple him fiscally,” Holmes agreed. “Given what I could verify of the state of his property, it seems extremely doubtful that his own estate could supply the loss. And he has no other means of support.”

I shook my head. No, Roylott could not return to being a doctor, which had been his original means of making a living. Even if he had not sworn an oath against it, he had killed a man, and the fact was known within the medical community, a black mark that could never be erased. That much had been apparent in my conversations earlier today. There were those who remembered Roylott from his younger days; who had seen great promise in him as well as the burning desire to turn his talent into a livelihood. Many had spoken fondly of him. He had trained with single-minded purpose, I had heard from more than one mouth; being a doctor was the only life Roylott could imagine for himself. Ambition, yes, but also a strong sense that healing and becoming a doctor was the purpose for which he had been born. It was said with sympathy by those who had told me, but also with regret and finality, as with a terminal diagnosis. He had been a doctor, but would never be accepted as one again, not even by those who had genuinely liked him.

It had not been a comfortable morning. There was too much to which I could easily relate. My own background was nowhere near as grand as his. Roylott had started out with a noble family name and landed property (however encumbered) to inherit. I was a second son who understood from an early age that I must make my own way in the world. But like Roylott, I had once thought medicine would be my path, my gift of healing the talent that would help me forge my future. By serving mankind, I would serve myself too, into respectability and reasonable prosperity. It had not turned out that way for me any more than it had for him. A fatal act on his part; a near-fatal bullet and attendant curse on mine, but the results were much the same. I, too, could never again be what I had been, and must find another way to live.

“Watson.” Holmes’ voice recalled my wandering thoughts. I found my friend looking at me curiously. “I have said something that disturbed you,” he said matter-of-factly, but I knew him well enough to hear the notes of concern and self-rebuke in the seemingly plain statement.

There was no point in prevaricating, not with Holmes. “I was just reflecting on the difficulties of finding a second career – or in Roylott’s case, a third or fourth.” I did my best to smile. “It is a problem I am well acquainted with, after all.”

Holmes grimaced. “My dear Watson, I am sorry if this case, and my discussion of it, has evoked painful memories of what happened to you in Afghanistan. But you cannot think that your circumstances are anything like Roylott’s.”

“We were both once doctors,” I pointed out.

“He lost his right to practice medicine by taking a life,” Holmes snapped. “You were wounded and cursed while attempting to save lives. The two situations are nothing alike.” He shook his head and glared at me fiercely. “And you are still a doctor, as I have every reason to know.”

I saw the anger and understood it for what it was: a fierce defence of my worth, and behind it, the loyal protest of a friend. Warmth filled my chest. “I will always be a doctor; I took the oath, and I will honour it as best as I can all the days of my life. But I can no longer make a living that way, any more than Roylott can. Let us both hope I am more successful in finding a second career than he.”

Holmes harrumphed and looked uncomfortable for a brief moment, as he sometimes was when emotions ran high between us. “Did you happen to learn anything about Roylott from your fellows?”

“Only trifles.”

“Trifles can sometimes prove very important. Pray tell me what you heard.”

“He was ambitious as a young medical student, and thought to be quite gifted. Few were surprised when he left the country to establish his career; his family did not approve of his direction, and he and his father especially did not see eye to eye. There was some surprise that he chose India as his destination, though.”

“Indeed?”

“Not that it was an unreasonable place to start; English doctors are in great demand there by English citizens, as you know.” Unspoken was the thought that I too might have chosen such a route, had I had the funds for the voyage and the means to set myself up there on my own. “But Roylott was a notable enthusiast of Egyptian antiquities, so much so that most of those who remembered him were surprised he had not gone there.”

“Egyptology?” Holmes echoed. “How on earth did he stumble into that, I wonder? 

I was surprised he didn’t know, but then again, why should he? Except that my friend often seemed to know unusual things about most professions. “It’s not an uncommon enthusiasm among medical students,” I explained. “Mummy unwrappings are often a first introduction to anatomy, whether it is an animal mummy or a human one. It leaves a strong impression on many. And the Egyptian method of mending – healing – the incisions they made in the bodies after removing the organs and viscera for mummifications is one of the great mysteries of ancient medicine. We don’t know how to do it now, but it was done then, so it must be possible. There is so much we still don’t know, so much knowledge that has been lost through the ages.” I remembered viewing those mummies, the faint lines the only traces left of the incisions that had allowed those long-ago mummifiers to remove the internal organs and pack the body cavities with the salts and herbs that dehydrated the corpse. One of my professors had demonstrated the incision and packing technique on a fresh cadaver, and speculated in detail about his theory that the answer to healing the incisions in the corpse lay in the both the diagrams and the mysterious writings included in the bandages used to bind the mummy. Like all other theories, his remained unproven; his techniques doing no more to heal those incisions on the cadaver than anyone else’s. Many of my fellow students became fascinated and attempted their own researches on the subject, but I found it more interesting to explore how to heal the living.

Holmes’ eyebrows rose. “Being able to heal a wound after death would make criminal investigation much more difficult,” he remarked. “I believe I am grateful this is a lost skill.” His brows drew down again. “Hm. Egypt is in Africa, is it not?”

Strangely enough, Holmes’ uncertainty on the matter struck me as less surprising than his lack of knowledge about medical students and mummies. I was more used to his odd gaps of knowledge of geography, I supposed. “Yes, Holmes, it is.”

“Hm,” he said again, before dismissing the matter in favour of discussion about many other matters. Holmes has the enviable ability to set a matter from his mind when there is nothing more to be done at the moment. He is also one of the most interesting, and charming, conversationalists of my acquaintance when he chooses to be. For the remainder of our journey, he and I shared a delightful discourse ranging across a broad range of subjects, including but not limited to ranking the best amateur boxers competing in London. Holmes’ knowledge in this arena was more first-hand than mine, but thanks to multiple excursions in his company, I was no longer as ignorant of the subject as I had been. I had even watched Holmes himself box against an opponent on two separate occasions. He had won handily both times. Had I dared, I might have added Holmes’ own name to the impromptu ranking we devised – and it would not have been low on the list. In amateur boxing, as in most things, I had never seen his equal.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson arrive at Stoke Moran.

We arrived at the station and were able to hire a trap for the drive out to the village near Stoke Moran. The spring air was refreshing after the smokes and stenches of London. It was a strange contrast, the fair day and the foul matter we were there to investigate. Certainly the first sight of the old manor as it rose above the trees was more in line with the latter feeling: grey and grim and ramshackle, with a fell aspect.

“Is that Stoke Moran?” Holmes asked the driver.

“Aye, it is,” the driver replied, “but you’ll want to stay well clear of it.”

“We’re here on business. There’s the building going on.”

It never ceased to amaze me, the way Holmes could put several truthful statements together to conjure the most believable lies.

“Here about the repairs, are you? Well, good luck to you then; you’ll need it, I think. But say; if you’re for the manor, the shortest way is over that stile, through that gap in the hedge and along the path. I can let you down right here.” He pulled his trap to a halt.

“You’d rather not take us the rest of the way?” Holmes asked as if he had not already deduced the answer. He paid the driver his fare and then swung down from his seat and grabbed his bag. I could not accomplish the feat so gracefully or easily, but I managed.

The driver spat off to one side. “No one in their right mind goes near the place, or at least not near its master. You’ll find out why soon enough if you’re going to do business with him.” With that blunt warning, the driver coaxed his horse into motion and soon left us behind.

“Not well liked in the neighbourhood, as Miss Stoner’s account implied,” I remarked idly as the trap turned the corner and vanished from view.

“Indeed not. But the day is pleasant enough, and here is the path, and we cannot lose our way with the house itself in our sights.”

“Assuming we don’t come across the cheetah or the baboon,” I reminded him dryly.

“Hah! Yes, that might prove something of a distraction. But we shall take our chances and hope for the best.”

Holmes took my arm after we climbed over the stile, and we walked together arm-in-arm. Save for the bags in our hands and the utter lack of city sounds, we might have been walking together in one of London’s parks on a pleasant afternoon stroll. The calls of birds made a pleasant change from the clatter of vehicles on cobblestones and the chatter of our fellow Londoners, at least to my ears. From the way Holmes frowned and stared occasionally at the trees and shrubs around us, I suspected he felt rather differently.

The path ended at a gravelled drive, and there stood Stoke Moran, an ancient manor house. As with many old family homes it had been added on to over the years, with wings added to what had been the original building. One of those wings was half a ruin, with the roof broken in parts and the windows boarded over. The central, oldest portion stood tall, but it too showed signs of decay, with the door and windows covered by more planks. Only the closest wing to us looked inhabited. It was clearly newer than the other two parts of the building. Smoke rose from several of its chimneys, and blinds and drapes could be seen through its glassed windows. Scaffolding had been erected at one end of the wing, but there were no workers anywhere visible. As we approached, a door opened, and Miss Stoner came hurrying out.

“Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson, welcome,” she said in a low voice, as if afraid she would be overheard even though no one was in sight. It seemed more habitual than the result of deliberate precaution. She shook both our hands warmly. “My stepfather is not at home, as planned. According to our housekeeper, he gave orders not to expect him for dinner, for he intended to take the late train. She is also our cook and will not leave her kitchen, so we should have all the afternoon to ourselves.”

“That is well. We have already met your stepfather, and I doubt he would react well to meeting us again here.”

Miss Stoner gasped and turned pale. “You have?”

“He followed you to London, and to our rooms,” I told her as gently as I could.

“But how?” she cried, turning pale. She rubbed one of her hands in distress and began pacing back and forth. “I never saw him! He is so cunning, neither Julia nor I could ever hide from him for long. We used to hide from him sometimes, after Mother died, but it never did any good; he always found us straightaway. And I don’t understand how he could have traced me today. From what the housekeeper told me, he left a full hour after I did. He could not have caught the same train."

“Could he have learned your destination from your papers, perhaps?” I asked, trying to calm her. “Your correspondence? How did you come to know of Holmes?”

She stopped pacing, but her hands did not still. “From Mrs Fairintosh, a friend of my mother’s sister. Mr Holmes, you once helped her recover her opal tiara, and save her reputation from the most terrible slanders. She told us about it once while we were on a visit to my aunt, and on a subsequent visit I asked her for your address. This was after poor Julia’s death, and even then I had some idea that I might be able to ask you for help in understanding what became of her. But we only spoke. I did not write any of it down.”

“I commend your memory, then,” Holmes said in the mild tones he used with upset clients he wished to soothe. “Perhaps he learned of me another way, or your housekeeper might have mistaken the time.”

Miss Stoner sighed. “That…is entirely possible. Mrs Brien is not always reliable in such matters, and the kitchen clock is more often off-time or stopped entirely than running accurately. I apologize; I should have thought of that myself.”

“You were understandably upset.” Holmes paused, a curious expression flickering across his features before vanishing behind concern. “Are your bruises paining you so much? My colleague might be able to provide an ointment or other relief…”

“What? Oh!” Miss Stoner ceased rubbing her hand and shook it out. Her cheeks flushed. “Oh, no, it is simply a habit. I cut my hand quite badly when I was very young. My stepfather healed it, but I often rub at the place where the cut was when I am distressed.”

Nothing changed in Holmes’ demeanour or expression, and yet I thought his attention sharpened, as if his attention had been drawn to some important bit of evidence. His next words, however, contradicted my impression. “Then if you are well, let us begin our tour of the manor and its grounds. Which of these windows is the one for your sister’s bedroom?”

“This one here.” Miss Stoner walked across the ill-kept lawn and gestured to a relatively large window on the ground floor. It was certainly large enough for any man to get through, if it was opened.

“Ah, then this one must be to your room, here at the end, near where the work is being done.” Holmes darted over to examine first the window, then the currently-deserted scaffolding and stonework. “I see that the wall has been opened, but I cannot see any reason why it should have been.”

“I don’t think there was any reason, except to provide an excuse to force me from my room to my sister’s.”

Holmes looked rather more pleased than surprised at Miss Stoner’s words. “I fear you may be correct about that. Can you go inside and bar the shutters to the room where you are now? I should like to examine the window when they are closed.”

“Certainly.” Miss Stoner hurried away.

“There are many places in this wing where the stone is in worse repair than the section being worked on, at least from what I can see,” Holmes said to me as Miss Stoner vanished inside the house. “It is possible that there was some badly flawed bit of stone in the part that is now missing, but the rest of the structure argues against it. Ah! Those are indeed notable shutters.” A thump announced Miss Stoner’s closure of one shutter, followed swiftly by the other. A softer sound indicated that the bar had been dropped in place.

Holmes examined them both closely, first with his eyes and magnifying glass, then with his hands, and lastly with a thin pocket-knife, which he tried to force between the shutters in order to slide upwards and dislodge the bar. “Hum! This presents some difficulties. A very snug fit, and very thick boards. There is no way an outsider could force his way in if the shutters were bolted as they are now, not without smashing them to pieces, which would take a great deal of work to do. We had better take our investigation indoors.”

We joined Miss Stoner inside, and she opened the shutters again to let in light. The room was rather dim, even after the heavy wooden shutters were opened and hidden behind the thick curtains that framed the window. Holmes lost no time in examining everything; the fireplace, the floor, the walls, the window, the bed, the dresser, the chair, the curtains, the bedclothes – nothing escaped his attention. My own eye was caught by a picture in a silver frame, sitting on the table beside the bed. The picture showed a woman who looked very like Miss Stoner, standing beside a man in uniform. The woman’s hand rested lightly on the man’s proffered arm, and the two leaned slightly towards each other. There was nothing obvious, certainly nothing inappropriate or unrefined in their postures or their demeanour, and yet it was clear to me that these two were very much in love.

“My sister Julia,” Miss Stoner said lowly, gesturing at the photograph I looked at, “and her fiancé, Major St. John. The photograph was taken at my aunt’s house. The major made a present of it and its frame to Julia when he came here to meet our stepfather. She planned to give it to me, she said, once she left home to make a life with the original.” Her eyes clouded with grief. “I have it still, though she never had that life, and neither did the poor major. He was recalled to his regiment shortly after my sister’s death, and I believe he has not been back to England since. I cannot help but think his recall was a kindness to him, a way of distracting him from his loss, and giving him new things to do and to see.”

Such individual kindness was not a hallmark of the Army I knew, but I would not have said so to her under any circumstances, much less these. Instead I took a different page from my own experiences. “It would have been a relief to him, I’m sure, but nothing could have truly dimmed his awareness of his loss. At best it would have been timely distractions while on duty, but that is little more than a bandage over a deep wound.”

Miss Stoner gave me a watery smile, and I realized that however slight that bandage might have been for Major St. John, it was one that had been denied to her. Embarrassed, I dropped my eyes, and spotted Holmes lying almost prone on the floor, examining the bed. He sprang to his feet almost immediately and reached out to touch a bell-rope hanging next to it, so closely that one silk-tasselled end lay in a serpentine curve on the pillow. “Miss Stoner, do you know where the bell is that is activated by this pull?”

“I assume it must go to the set in the kitchen. There used to be a set in the housekeeper’s room, and another in the butler’s quarters, but those are in a part of the house that is no longer used.”

“The rope looks newer than the curtains and other hangings in the room. Was it replaced recently, within the last few years?”

“I very much doubt it. We are used to getting things for ourselves, rather than ringing for a servant. I don’t have any such device in my room, or at least not a pull for a bell. In fact, I don’t remember when Julia must have added this.”

Holmes smiled, but I could see some thought racing behind his eyes. “Were there any other alterations made to your rooms for your comfort within the last few years?”

Miss Stoner frowned but answered readily. “My stepfather complained our bedrooms were too close and that the air became stale, which could endanger our health. He had ventilators added to improve the circulation.”

“That would explain the grate just above where the bell-rope ends. In fact, it looks as if the rope is attached to the ventilator grate, and not to any wire.”

“Why so it is! How strange!”

“Yes, very strange,” Holmes agreed, still with that pleasant smile.

“Perhaps your sister simply liked the pull and hung it up to display it? It is very beautiful,” I suggested. It was a lovely thing, embroidered heavily in bright colours and in patterns that made me think of India.

“I suppose so,” Miss Stoner replied in that polite tone of voice people use when they don’t think something is very likely, but do not wish to belabour the point.

“Indeed.” Holmes nodded to himself. “I believe we have learned all that we can here. Let us move on to Roylott’s chamber.”

The bedroom of the master of the house was larger, and eccentrically furnished with a mixture of English pieces and more exotic items. The style of some of them identified themselves to me as being from India, but others were more clearly Egyptian, or made to look so. Given what his contemporaries had told me, I was unsurprised to see that influence. A large bookshelf, crammed full of books, dominated one wall. One shelf’s titles in particular spoke loudly to my memory and my inner doctor: Hippocrates’ _Epidemics_ and _Corpus Hominis_; Agnodice’s _Aitia_; Galen’s _De Motu Musculorum_, _De Constitutione Artis Medicae,_ and _De Compositione Medicamentorum Secundum Locus;_ Helena of Telcys’ _Ars Medicinalis_ and _Ars Lacuna; _Dioscorides’ _De Materia Medica_; Gregory’s _Materica Medica_; Frevisse’s _Verbum Medens_; Dee’s _Magickal Wordes_ and his translation of _Firdaus al-Hikmah_… Old friends all, mixed in with less familiar tomes: _Medicine and Mind_, _Egyptian Cures and Curses_, _Artem et Calemum_, _Ancient Egyptian Physicians, The Golden Treatise_… Clearly Roylott’s medical studies had been broader and more esoteric than mine. My arm and shoulder ached, reminding me why I could no longer practise medicine as I had. I rubbed at the ache absently as I wrenched my eyes away from the books and forced myself to continue to look around the room. A squat iron safe sat near a chair and a round table, the latter item plainly doing the duty of a desk, judging by the blotter, inkwell, and pen set on the table’s surface. The bed was an ancient four-poster, complete with bedcurtains that looked to be as old as the house. A worn, comfortable-looking armchair rested between bed and bookshelf, giving some idea of how Roylott preferred to spend his leisure hours.

Holmes walked around the room, examining everything with the same intensity he had shown in the late Julia Stoner’s bedchamber. He brought out his lens to examine the seat of the chair by the table. He lingered for a few moments by the bookshelf, scanning the titles on the spines, before circling back to the safe. “Miss Stoner, do you happen to know what is stored in here?”

“My stepfather uses it to store his important papers.”

“Have you seen it open, then?”

“Just the once, many years ago. It was stuffed full of papers at that time.”

“And do you keep a cat?”

Miss Stoner looked taken aback by such a non sequitur, but showed some of the strength of spirit that had brought her to 221B. “Only if you count the cheetah.”

“I suppose that would make keeping a housecat difficult. I only asked, you see, because of this.” He lifted a bowl that had been placed upside-down on top of the safe. Underneath it was a saucer of thick yellowish-white cream, the sort of thing you might put out for a cat, at least to most ways of thinking. It reminded me strongly of my childhood, where older and more superstitious people would put out similar saucers to appease hobs and malignant spirits.

“I can’t imagine why my stepfather would have such a thing in his room. As I said, we don’t keep a cat, and I can hardly think that would such a small mouthful would be very satisfying to the cheetah, should it ever get into the house.”

Holmes grinned at that. “No, I shouldn’t think this would do more than wet its tongue. Nor can I see it having much appeal to the baboon. Yet here it is, and also this dog-leash, which seems as useless for either animal as that dish of milk.” He gestured to an ordinary whipcord dog leash which was draped around one post of the bed. The free end had been doubled back and tied in such a way that it formed a loop.

“I don’t understand,” Miss Stoner said, staring at the leash and rubbing her hands together. “What is that for?”

“That is indeed the question,” Holmes answered. “What is any of this for? This room poses as many questions as answers. And yet it is most instructive.” He took one last look around the room. “I believe we have seen all that we need to here. Let us go back outside and walk upon the lawn in the sunshine.”

My friend walked up and down the unkempt lawn outside the house several times. His face was grim and dark, his mind clearly working away at what he had seen and those deductions only he seemed able to make. I kept one eye upon him while remaining near the door with Miss Stoner. I engaged her in light conversation about her fiancé and her upcoming wedding, as much to distract her from her entirely reasonable anxiety as to give Holmes time to complete his deliberations. At last he came back towards us. His jaw was set, his countenance grim, but nevertheless he projected absolute confidence as he approached Miss Stoner.

“You have been very brave, Miss Stoner. Now I must ask you to be braver still, and to follow my recommendations in every respect.”

“I will.”

“Do you think, with sufficient blankets and other preparations, you can weather a night in your old room? The night promises to be relatively mild, and I believe you can make shift to block the opening in the wall sufficiently to prevent any significant animal visitors.”

“Certainly, if you think it necessary.”

Holmes nodded. “Your very life might depend on it. I see from the state of the building that the groundskeeper’s cottage over there is unoccupied.”

“Yes, we only use it for storage.”

“My friend and I will hide ourselves there. You must confine yourself to your room before your stepfather returns. Tell the housekeeper you have a headache or some other complaint, and that you do not wish to be disturbed. Lock your door. When you hear Roylott retire for the night, undo your shutters – if you can do so silently. You must not be heard. If not, you must leave them ajar.”

“I can open them quietly enough if I leave off the bar.”

“Excellent. Then you must place a lantern in the window as a signal to us before stepping outside and going to your old room. Leave the window and shutters open. Watson and I shall come and stay the night in your sister’s room, and there we shall learn the cause of these events.”

Miss Stoner reached out and grasped Holmes’ sleeve. “You know what happened to my sister.”

“I have a theory.”

“Please, you must tell me!” Miss Stoner’s grip tightened. I could see her fingers blanch as the blood fled her fingers. “I have lived with the mystery of my poor sister’s death for two years. If you know…”

Holmes covered her hand with one of his own and gently loosened her grip. “My dear lady, all I have at the moment is theory without sufficient proof. I must have more facts before I can speak.”

“At least tell me if you believe my sister’s death was accidental, or some random cause of nature.”

“No. I believe there was some tangible cause that precipitated her demise. But what I believe is irrelevant without proof.” He pressed her hand before letting it go. “For now, Watson and I must depart. We cannot risk being seen here by Doctor Roylott, whenever he returns. We shall make our way back to the groundskeeper’s cottage before nightfall, never fear, and there we shall wait for your signal.”

“I will do exactly as you say.” Miss Stoner gave us both a tremulous smile, heart-breaking in its bravery. “And thank you, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson. I cannot say it enough. Thank you for all that you have done, and all that you intend to do.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson contemplate risks and oaths.

“This is a most dangerous matter,” Holmes said to me over a quiet dinner at the local inn. “It is always so when a clever man turns his mind to crime, and it is even worse when the man is a doctor.” Holmes shot me an apologetic look, but continued his thought. “When a doctor chooses to break his oath, he is among the first of criminals.”

In its own way, it was an odd compliment to my profession. “How so?”

“Because doctors have training, they have knowledge, and they have the will and the nerve to act. Any half-trained doctor knows things about the human body that the average person does not, and has at least some practice in acting in a crisis. A well-trained man, who has spent time in surgical wards and sickrooms, the diagnosis room and the compounding room, the scriptoriums and clinics, is a man who knows how to heal – and can use that self-same training to kill.”

It was true enough. I could see it as Holmes said it. And yet to break the oath…! My mind rebelled against the idea, right down to my very core.

I wrote the abbreviated form into my own skin with my own blood and my own pain, as every doctor has done for centuries, all the way back to antiquity. That oath is part of me, literally, as it is part of every doctor. It is written in my mind, my blood, and my bone: to do no harm, to help the sick, to keep the secrets of patients, to seek knowledge, to remain humble. I have kept my oath through war and disaster. I have been a doctor and a soldier both. I have killed using the same hands I used to heal. But I have never used my powers, my doctor’s talents, for anything but the benefit of those I treated.

Of course it is possible for doctors to misuse their powers, both in the passive and the active sense. I have seen doctors who failed to live up to the spirit of the words they had carved on their flesh, as I had on mine. I knew those who instead let indolence, addiction, or greed guide their actions. Even so, I felt most of those people still believed they were keeping their oath. Self-deluded, perhaps, but they had not actively broken with it, at least in their minds. I knew, too, that there were those who did take that unthinkable last step and actively used their skill to harm, though to the best of my knowledge I had never met one. I doubted I would ever understand what could motivate someone to do such a thing. At least I hoped I would never understand it.

Holmes looked at me inquiringly, and I realized I had let my side of the conversation lapse while I pondered my thoughts. I could not speak of most of it, not even to him, and yet… “It is no small thing, to set aside that oath,” I said quietly. “Roylott’s actions in India, as heinous as they were, did not constitute an utter violation of that pledge, at least not as Miss Stoner told it to us. He beat that man, but he did not use his powers to inflict harm. The great failure lay in his refusal to help him once presented with the injuries. That is a violation, at least in part, of what we promise; and certainly his subsequent refusal to practice shows that his failure affected him very deeply. Yet even so, it is not the same as actually and actively using his powers to kill anyone, much less his stepdaughter. Nor do I see how the medical examiner could have missed the signs such a misuse would have left, given Miss Stoner’s account of the man’s zeal.”

“Yes, that does present a difficulty. A healing turned to a killing leaves unmistakable signs, just as any kind of curse does. And yet…” His voice trailed off as his eyes grew distant, chasing some thought. I ate a third of my dinner before Holmes spoke again. “Yes, these are dark and deep waters. I really have some reservations about your accompanying me tonight.”

I was determined to stay by Holmes’ side in whatever awaited us at Stoke Moran. “I do not mind danger, if I can be of any use to you.”

“Your assistance is always welcome, and might prove invaluable tonight.”

“Then I am most definitely coming with you.” I set my knife and fork down silently and gave Holmes my best stern look. “I would not wish to be anywhere else.”

My friend smiled faintly, and colour tinged his habitually pale cheeks. “Thank you. That is - you are most kind.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It is certainly not nothing.” Holmes’ contradiction was swift. “You are voluntarily putting yourself in the gravest danger, and without knowing anything about it. We will have to sit there in the dark, without light, without making a noise, for that might give away our plans, and wait for – for whatever might happen. And even knowing to expect danger might not be enough to stave it off when it comes.”

In that instant, I felt something pass between us: an intense, mysterious thing I could not name. Something wild, not best suited for the dining room of a public inn.

“You might need me there,” I retorted, gathering my wits. “That is enough for me to know.” Holmes looked almost stricken at that. I smiled at him, although I could not say just then all of what went into that expression. Loyalty, certainly, and trust, and affection – and probably a certain amount of exasperation. “Besides, I’m sure you’ll tell me at least some of your theory of the danger while we’re waiting for our signal.”

I did not actively hold my breath, but I cannot recall breathing in the long moments before Holmes shook his head and laughed quietly. “Likely enough,” he said lightly. “And speaking of that signal, it is time for us to make our way to our observation post. It would not do to be caught by the master of the house returning home.”

It was a short walk back to the dilapidated fence that surrounded the grounds of Stoke Moran. Holmes and I had no trouble circumventing it. Neither did we have any difficulty making our way into to the abandoned groundskeeper’s cottage. The door was not even locked. I would have credited Miss Stoner’s forethought in that, but the condition of the cobwebbed keyhole and rusty knob suggested it had been left untouched for quite some time. The biggest challenge was in getting the door opened and closed again without making enough noise to alert the inhabitants of the main house.

The cottage was a primitive one even before taking its abandonment into account. It was half-filled with random objects, but that was all to the good; there were plenty of places left in shadow, where two men might sit side-by-side and watch for a signal to shine through the dirty glass of the window that looked towards the house. I settled next to Holmes the way I had often sat next to my fellows in brief respites on long duty-shifts or on the march: resting shoulder to shoulder, to assist in quiet conversation or just provide bulwarks for each other in staying upright. I sensed, rather than heard or saw, Holmes give a slight start as my shoulder brushed his.

“You have clearly formed an opinion on the matter, Holmes. What did I miss? You must have seen more inside the house than I did.”

Holmes chuckled almost silently and relaxed his shoulder against mine. “We saw the same things, Watson, or had the same opportunity, but perhaps I deduced a little more. Did anything there strike you as strange?”

“Well, there was that bell-pull that wasn’t attached to a wire.”

“Excellent, Watson! Yes, and it was attached to a ventilator that wasn’t a ventilator, but rather a simple opening between two rooms.”

“A very small one. And in a house as decrepit and drought-filled as Stoke Moran most likely is, it might prove kinder than an opening directly to the outdoors, at least in terms of preserving heat.”

“Or it might have been placed there for another reason entirely. Tell me, what did you observe about the bed itself?”

I hastily tried to recall it. “It was old, as were all of the furnishings, and of an old-fashioned, very heavy kind of woodwork that lasts centuries, as this one appears to have done. There was nothing particularly extraordinary about it.”

“Except that it was almost impossible to move, wedged as it was in that particular part of the room. Roylott’s own bed was not so immovably placed, nor was Miss Stoner’s, in her usual bedchamber. Perhaps it is just a peculiarity of that room, but I do not think so, not with that bell-pull.” He turned his head to look directly at me. “But my dear fellow, did you not notice anything unusual while you were in Roylott’s own chamber?”

“His collection of medical books is enviable, particularly given the poverty of the rest of the estate. His range of study must have been broader than mine, and of course his Egyptian interests were reflected there too. I admit there were several volumes I had never heard of. He must have been quite the scholarly medical student once, before he gave up medical practice.”

“Ah, yes, I saw you looking them over. But did you notice that several of them were quite free from dust, and the traces that showed which volumes had been recently and regularly consulted?”

I shook my head, chagrined. “No, I’m afraid I did not.”

Rather than grow irritated, as Holmes sometimes did when I failed to notice details he had observed, my friend’s gaze grew more intent. “And do you recall anything beyond the books that struck you particularly, or anything else unusual about the room?”

I wracked my brain, wanting to please Holmes, or at least not disappoint him. I ran through everything I could remember about what I’d seen there. The bed, the table used as a desk, the chair, the safe, the saucer of milk on the safe, the armchair by the bookshelves, the lamp, the odd leash Holmes himself had pointed out… “You yourself called out the dish of milk, and the dog-leash. I cannot think of anything else.”

Holmes’ lips compressed, and his eyes closed briefly. “And yet some part of you can.”

“What?”

“Your shoulder.”

Puzzled, I glanced down at it – at the wounded one, not the other, as that was always the first place I thought to look when someone mentioned my shoulder. I realized I had brought my other hand up to cover it, as I sometimes did when it ached. It did not truly ache now, but I had brought my hand up all the same, and my arm tingled faintly, as if at the memory of pain. I moved my hand to drop back to my side. “My shoulder?”

“I did not think anything of it when you rubbed it after Roylott’s exhibition with the poker,” Holmes said softly. His eyes were open again, and his gaze was fixed on me. “It pains you often enough. Yet there was something strange about the timing, and the movement, that caught my attention. You did it again in Roylott’s chambers while you were examining the books, and briefly again when you looked at that dish of cream.”

“I did?”

Holmes nodded. “I might still have thought it a variant of your habitual gesture, except for Miss Stoner’s behaviour, and the way she kept rubbing her hands.”

“I don’t understand.” I vaguely remembered her doing so at one point, but what did that have to do with anything?

Holmes gave me a mildly chiding look, as he often did when he followed my thought and did not agree with it. “She told us both that her stepfather had healed a cut on her hand when she was a child. She rubbed at that spot when she was distressed about the mysterious way her stepfather was able to trace her, and then again when I examined that curious leash.”

“She did say it was a nervous habit left over from childhood.”

“And yet it is the way she did it, so similar to the way you yourself reacted all unknowingly to something that disturbed you. Or, perhaps more accurately, disturbed your doctor’s healing sense, or your curse.”

I felt my eyes widen, and I only just prevented myself from reaching for my shoulder again in pure reflex. Although I knew the curse had spread throughout my body, the site of my initial wounding, where the cursed bullet had shattered my shoulder, was where I instinctively sited it in my mind. “Miss Stoner has not been cursed,” I objected.

“Not that we know of, any more than Julia Stoner suffered from a death-curse, at least not that the police and the doctor who conducted the inquiry into her death could detect. And we also know Miss Stoner is not a doctor, and yet both of you seem to sense something about Roylott that I cannot.” Holmes shrugged and looked briefly uncomfortable. “It is possible that Roylott has acquired some new skill, or rediscovered an old one, that modern medicine cannot detect. It is equally possible there is something else at work. All this is just theory, which is why we must brave that room tonight. But I fear, Watson, that I may be placing you into even greater danger than I am putting myself.”

Because of my curse, or because of the sensitivity Holmes observed without my even being aware of its existence? I could not guess, and I did not care. “Or it may be that I might be in a better position to warn us before anything can happen, which might save both our lives,” I pointed out. “You will not change my mind on this, Holmes. I am going with you.”

For a moment I thought Holmes might try to order me to stay, but then he huffed, a strange little noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and leaned a little more heavily against my good shoulder. “Very well, Watson. I should have known nothing I could say would dissuade you. We shall take this risk together.”

I could have said many things in response to that, but none seemed right in that moment. I settled for a simple nod, and to let myself relax against him as we sat together, shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting for our signal.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a long wait.

It was a long wait. Hours passed before we saw Roylott return to the manor. Judging by the way he swore at the boy who drove the cart and the manner in which he stormed off into the house, he was in a foul mood. The boy lost no time in driving away in the gathering dusk.

Night fell completely. The sky was clear, and the moon was half-full, which was fortunate, for there was very little other light. What little light the wakeful inhabitants might be using was hidden away behind shutters and curtains. Given the relative poverty of the household, I doubted they were using much in the way of candles or lamp-oil.

Finally a clear light shone from the dark bulk of the half-ruined manor. Illuminated by its radiance, I caught a glimpse of Miss Stoner, wrapped in a cloak, as she agilely made her way out of the window and onto the ill-kept grounds. I could just make out her form as she made her way to the end of the house, where the gap in the wall would permit her to make her way into her usual room.

Holmes gripped me by the arm. “Come, Watson. We must waste no time.”

I ran after Holmes as quietly as I could. My friend made no sound as he sprinted across the lawn and to the window Miss Stoner had left open for us. He scooped up the lantern Miss Stoner had left on the sill, and then stepped inside. I followed him. The opening was wide enough and close enough to the ground that it was a simple matter, almost like walking through a doorway.

Once inside, Holmes closed the window, and then the shutters, although he did not bar them shut. He raised the lantern enough to illuminate the bedchamber before pointing at me with his free hand, and then at the one chair in the room, a few feet from the bed. I nodded and sat down in it. Holmes himself sat on the end of the bed closest to the chair, close enough that I could easily reach out and touch him if I wished to. He placed his walking-stick beside him on the top of the coverlet, and then reached inside his coat pocket. He withdrew a short candle and a box of matches, and laid those beside the cane. He then leaned towards me, and I matched the movement until our heads nearly touched.

He cupped his hands around my ear and spoke into the hollow he made, so softly I could scarcely hear him even with his hands to amplify the sound. “I must turn out the lamp. It must appear just as if Miss Stoner has gone to bed. For God’s sake, whatever you do, you must not fall asleep. Signal me if you feel anything amiss with your shoulder.”

I nodded to show I understood. Holmes remained as he was a moment more, long enough that I thought he would speak again, but then withdrew. He drew himself up until he was sitting taut and tall, perched on the edge of the bed like a heron or some other hunting bird, poised for action. Setting the lamp on the bedside table, he looked at me once more, then turned down the lamp until all was in darkness.

And what a darkness it was; nearly complete, with only the faintest light visible around the edges of the shutters. We sat there, waiting for I knew not what, for hours. The parish clock struck midnight, then one, and nothing happened. Two o’clock came and went, and still we waited. In the dark my mind conjured one horrible possibility after another. I did not try to stop it or think of other things, in part because it was a simple way to keep myself awake and alert. The only thing that kept the vigil from being entirely nightmarish was the soft sounds of Holmes breathing, and the knowledge that I did not keep the watch alone.

The parish clock struck three, and then the quarter-hour. A bright flash of light from the direction of the ventilator dazzled my eyes and jolted my senses. Roylott must have struck a light in his bedroom. I sensed, rather than saw, Holmes tense where he sat on the bed, and I knew we were both alert, straining every sense in anticipation of whatever might follow. The glow lasted just long enough for my eyes to start to adjust, and then it vanished again. I could smell oil, though, and heated metal. From my own experiences with Holmes, I recognized the scents associated with the use of a dark-lantern.

I strained my ears and heard the faintest sounds of movement in the other room. Silence descended, and for long minutes we sat there together in the dark, waiting.

A strange, dull pain radiated out from my shoulder and down my arm.

I suppressed both the instinct to cry out and the habit of reaching up with my good arm and clutching my shoulder. Instead I reached out in the darkness and grasped Holmes’ shoulder tightly, squeezing in silent warning.

Holmes’ response was instant. He struck a match and lit the candle, raising it above his head to illuminate as much of the room as he could. He froze, his eyes widening in horror as he stared at the bell-rope leading down towards the bed where he still sat.

The candle-light revealed a fantastic, hideous creature caught in the act of climbing down that rope. Its tiny, wizened face wrinkled in a malicious grin, baring sharp, unnatural teeth. I felt my limbs turn to stone, and my heart thud wildly in my chest, seeing a horror from my earliest nightmares.

“Don’t move, Watson!” Holmes’ voice was a barely audible whisper, strangled by loathing, underwritten with fear. “Do you see the snake? Do you see it?”

Snake? My heart, already pounding, tried to hammer twice as fast. Pain shot through my chest. I saw a horrible hob, the very thing I had been most afraid of as a child. Where was the snake?

My shoulder clawed at me again, this time with a blaze of sudden heat. I could almost hear my curse _snarl_. The hob hissed in defiance and fear, as if in response. I heard a low whistle, the note drawn out like a wail, amplifying the fear and horror I felt.

_Fear…_ The pain of my arm loosed a portion of my mind that had been wrapped in terror at seeing that awful creature. Titles from Roylott’s library flashed across my memory: _De Compositione Medicamentorum Secundum Locus_ and _Verbum Medens_, and one of the books I had not read, _Medicine and Mind_… the Egyptian studies and fascination… my curse and curses in general… All of this coalesced somehow in my brain, and I recognized the true enemy. It was fear itself; fear and terror of the mind, conjured from earliest memories and deepest fears, fright enough to kill. It was nothing I knew how to heal, and I had no pen to hand, no memorized medical passage to write…and then somehow I did have words. Unbidden, the words of a Bible verse came to mind, and I knew then what I would inscribe on both our skins in our mingled blood if I could: “_O man greatly beloved, fear not: peace be unto thee, be strong, yea, be strong_.” The words blazed in my mind, and I drew upon my curse-riddled powers, risking it in order to help myself, and more importantly Holmes, whose shoulder I still grasped. “Not real,” I gasped out. “Terror…kills!”

A spot on the back of the hand that grasped Holmes’ shoulder burned, as it had when I had plunged my pen into it months ago in order to mingle my blood and his. I expected to feel the leaden pain follow closely thereafter, choking my lungs and strangling my heart, my curse reacting to try and kill me as it did anytime I used my healing powers. Instead I experienced something quite different. It was almost as if I stood inside of a giant bell, feeling the vibrations reverberating all around me – and yet somehow the bell was inside me, the _curse_ was inside me, and together we were making the world shake. 

I heard the thing on the bell-rope shriek at the same moment I heard Holmes shout. My hand had slipped from his shoulder at some point. His cane was somehow in his hand, and he was striking out at the horrible manifestation of terror, beating it back, driving it towards the ventilator from which it must have come. I wanted to help him, draw my pistol from my pocket and fire at it, or pull out my pen from the other pocket and drive it into the heart of the thing. I could do nothing; the vibration still rang through me, holding me still as stone.

As still as _unbreathing_ stone. I could not move; I could not breathe. The room swam before my eyes.

I heard a terrible scream, a howl of unbridled fear that rose in pitch and terror until it ended in a fearful shriek. The sound ran through me in a bizarre counterpoint to the overwhelming vibration that had consumed me up until that point. I gasped, suddenly freed, and collapsed back into my chair, scarcely able to remain upright.

“Watson!” Holmes’ hands grasped my shoulders, and his strained face hovered near mine. “Watson, are you all right?”

“I – I think so,” I stammered, still trying to recover my wits and breath both. “What was that cry?”

“The end of the case, and of Roylott too, if I am not mistaken. Have your pistol ready, Watson, and we will see what this evening has wrought.”

He re-lit the lamp, and together we made our way to Roylott’s room. The door was shut and locked, and no answer came to Holmes’ repeated knocking. At last Holmes stooped down and did something to the lock. The door swung open. The light of Holmes’ lamp mingled with a beam of light from a dark-lantern set on the table, shutter adjusted so it was shining on the open iron safe, a reed flute, and a collection of papers scattered over the table’s surface. Roylott himself sat in the chair next to the table with his back to the door, facing the wall with the ventilator. He did not turn to face us, did not move at all. Pistol in hand, I stepped into the room first, not trusting that stillness. Holmes came in on my heels and raised his lantern high as he walked confidently to where Roylott sat. I followed closely behind.

Roylott was clad in dressing-gown and slippers, and stared up at the ventilator with bulging, dead eyes. His mouth gaped open, frozen in a rictus of fear and rage. A golden crown, shaped like a serpent in the Egyptian style, circled his brows. The strangely-looped leash had been threaded through one of the ventilator holes, so it formed the same kind of connection as the bell-pull did in the other room. The other end rested in Roylott’s palm, where blood from a cut on the side of his hand had welled and mixed with a whitish liquid – the cream from the dish we’d seen earlier, which now rested on the table with the papers. In his other hand Roylott held a pen, whose nib was discoloured with the red-and-white mixture from his palm. Moving closer, I could see faint indications that some sort of characters had been written on the leash. The marks were still damp enough to be discernible, but they were nothing I could decipher, or even recognize.

There was no question that Roylott was dead, but I saw no mark of violence upon him other than the cut on his hand – and I was far too familiar with that kind of minor injury to see it as anything other than a self-inflicted wound for drawing on healing powers. And yet this was no healing – far from it. It was like no working I had ever seen. “What did he do?” I wondered aloud in a low voice.

“You said it yourself, Watson: terror. He somehow used his healing talents and doctor’s knowledge to inspire mortal fear in the occupant of that bed. The cord here must connect to that bell-pull there, which in turn connected to the bed itself. How that connection, that sympathy, enabled Roylott to do what he did – that I can only guess at. Curses must be imbued on an object, and healing cannot be done at a distance but only by touch, and yet…” Holmes’ voice trailed off, and then he shook himself, rather like a dog shedding water from its coat. “Perhaps these papers will help explain it. But whatever he did, however he did it, it turned back upon him at the last. He has been struck down by the very trap he hoped to spring on our client. It is the kind of justice that can only be administered by a higher power, when the violence a man plans recoils upon him to his own destruction. But our mortal powers must be satisfied, too. Come, my dear fellow; let us go tell the sad truth of this matter to Miss Stoner, and then summon the local authorities to the scene. I will do my level best to convince them to leave these papers to me to take to London, where we might find experts enough to understand what Roylott was attempting, the methods he used – and discretion enough never to let any of this be generally exposed.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations and ruminations at the end of the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it, the last chapter of this story. As an extra treat, I will provide "liner notes" for this story on October 31. If you have any questions, post them in comments and I'll do my best to answer then.

Miss Stoner had heard her stepfather’s scream, and between cold and terror, was in a piteous state; trembling so badly she could scarcely stand. A pot of tea and a seat next to the kitchen stove helped revive her. Once warmed, she took the news of her stepfather’s demise, and its cause, rather more calmly than many would have done. “My poor sister! And my stepfather – he cannot have been in his right mind to have done what he did.” She lifted up one of her hands and stared at it thoughtfully, both at the bruises that still showed around her wrist, and at a faint scar that was only visible now, when she went without gloves. “He was violent and cruel these last ten years, I know; none better. But he was not always that way. He loved me very dearly when I was a child, and my sister too. I cannot understand how he came to hate us so much.”

To tell her of her stepfather’s greedy motive would have been an unbounded cruelty. “Madness comes in many forms,” I said instead. “And the mad often strike out most strongly against those they love the most.” 

It was enough of a truth to soothe, and yet I doubted whether Miss Stoner would ever be truly satisfied. She would always wonder, always feel the unanswered questions of why someone who should have loved and protected her instead turned upon her. I understood that sentiment all too well.

It was late morning before the authorities were satisfied enough to let us depart. Holmes and I escorted Miss Stoner to her aunt’s home in Harrow. That good lady welcomed her with open arms and took her in at once with compassion, efficiency, and mercifully few questions. By late afternoon, Holmes and I were finally on a train back to London. We had a first-class compartment to ourselves, for which I was very thankful. The events of the past day and a half were catching up to me, and exhaustion washed over my senses like a wave. Holmes, too, seemed worn and tired. He settled onto the seat across from me and lay his head back against the cushion. He seemed lost in thought and disinclined for conversation. I was glad of it, for I had much to think about.

“Watson.”

I opened my eyes, unaware that I had closed them until that moment. Holmes was looking at me with concern. “Forgive me, dear fellow, if you were sleeping, but you looked – distressed.”

“Thank you. I was not asleep,” I assured him. “I was merely thinking about what happened at Stoke Moran.”

“Very understandably so.” Holmes rarely sounded so muted, and his gaze was troubled. “You did not see a snake in that room, did you?” He phrased it as a question, but it was really a statement. He already knew the answer, or thought he did.

“No, but your saying you did likely saved both our lives,” I said, and that was true, as true as the rest of what I had realized. “It was so different than the imaginary childhood terror I saw that the discrepancy suggested whatever-it-was was a product of fearful imagination. Yet it was real enough to react to being struck. How did you drive it away?” For I remembered Holmes striking out at whatever it had been, and it had reacted to him as if it had really been there.

“Ah, that.” Holmes reached down and picked up his traveling-bag, which he had placed on the floor. He opened it and pulled out three pieces of wood, which, when assembled, became the thin cane he had laid next to him on the bed. “Curse-casting is as illegal as vitriol-throwing, and yet both crimes still occur, though vitriol-throwing is far more common. I cannot defend against the latter very easily, but I can and do take measures to defend myself against the former, rare as it is. I was gifted this years ago by one of my first clients. It has come in handy a few times, but never more so than last night.” He hefted the cane in his hand, and I discerned faint lines traced on its gently pitted surface. The surface of the cane looked like some sort of bone, though it had been stained to give it the approximate appearance of wood. “It can deflect a cursed object when cast, or even help dislodge a curse if the adherence is recent enough, or so I was told. I have tested it against the former, but never the latter.

“I had ruled out the possibility of Julia Stoner’s death being the result of a death-curse based on what Miss Stoner told us about the detailed inquest. I hardly need tell you that any kind of curse, much less a death-curse, leaves unmistakable signs, and a focused inquest could hardly fail to detect them. Which only goes to show the danger of theorizing before one has all the facts to hand. I was guilty of assumption in another direction as well. I had formed a theory, based on the reported presence of gypsies on the property, the victim’s strange utterance, and the loud clang, that someone, possibly a gypsy, had managed to open the shutters and wreak the fatal mischief on Julia Stoner. Examining the shutters directly was enough to disprove that theory; they could not be forced from the outside. The reported metallic clang was likely Roylott closing the safe on the serpent crown and other paraphernalia he used in his procedure, for it would have undoubtedly roused comment had it been seen by anyone. As for the whistle… well, we can only assume that it too was part of whatever Roylott did to inspire such terror in the minds of his victims. I had not anticipated any such thing. Yet Roylott’s performance in our sitting-room did suggest something unusual might be at work, enough so that I thought to bring this.”

“Then you saved our lives twice over.”

“Given that I was the one who planned the course of action that endangered our lives in the first place, I think that hardly counts in the balance.” Yet for all his dismissive words, I could tell that my simple statement had helped lift some of the weight of the night’s events from his shoulders. He tilted his head and looked at me curiously. “Snakes were a childhood terror of mine,” he remarked. “You mentioned that you saw a childish terror, too. What was it?”

It was embarrassing, but Holmes’ curiosity would plague us both until I satisfied it. “A Hob – a type of faerie creature that lived in houses and barns in some of my grandmother’s tales. They could be beneficial if kept appeased – but dangerous if provoked, and some were evil indeed, preferring the blood of naughty boys to the more traditional cup of cream.”

Holmes snorted, amused.

“My grandmother might have regretted letting her aggravation get the better of her judgment and telling us that particular story when she had to cope with the nightmares it inspired for the next fortnight.” I might have said more, but a sudden yawn surprised me.

“You are exhausted, Watson, and understandably so. It has been a very taxing thirty-six hours. You should take advantage of this opportunity and get some sleep before we reach London, if you can.”

“I believe I shall try.” I leaned my head back against the padded bench and closed my eyes, but I did not sleep. The memory of the Hob jolted me with adrenaline, but there were yet more reasons for my wakefulness.

I could no longer avoid the two realizations that had crystallized at Stoke Moran.

My curse has nearly killed me several times. Yet in the presence of Roylott in our sitting-room, and then again sitting in the darkness of Julia Stoner’s bedroom, my curse had somehow warned me of – what? I still didn’t know. But I felt fairly certain that my curse had helped save me, me and Holmes both, when whatever Roylott had done had threatened to overwhelm us with fear to the point where we would have both died of it. If a curse could be said to have any active agency of its own, I would be tempted to attribute it to something akin to possessiveness: no curse was going to be allowed to kill me save the one that already inhabited my blood and bones.

Wild fancy nor not, the underlying truth held: my curse, which had ended my career, had played a part in saving my life. My curse had saved _Holmes’_ life. And that was not entirely the same thing, but…

In the depths of terror, reaching for my powers and grasping for any words to help defend myself and my friend, my mind and soul had answered with unthinking and unequivocal words from the book of Daniel. My heart knew exactly the words I would have written on our skins, even if my conscious mind had not realized it. And now I could not unknow what I had learned. It was written in my mind, indelibly, as true as anything I had ever known.

I loved Sherlock Holmes. Not just as a man loved a friend, or a brother, although friendship was almost certainly the soil in which my stronger feelings had taken root. The words _O man greatly beloved_ had come to me without thought. Those words were not my own, but they were the truth of my heart just the same. I loved Holmes as David had loved Jonathan, as certain ancient male Greek and Roman poets had loved each other; more deeply and truly than any love I had ever known before.

Was this, too, another curse? Many members of modern society would certainly say so. Some claimed love between members of the same gender was a disorder, although it was not recognized as an affliction in the modern medical sense. Love of any kind was not an illness to be cured by healing. But I was less concerned with what others thought than what I did - and I had no idea. It felt like it could be blessing and bane all in one.

I would never tell him. Not because I was ashamed of my feelings, but because I did not know his; and I did know that emotions, matters of the heart, were one of the few things that could make Holmes uncomfortable. I also knew how few friends he had, and that he cherished our friendship. If he did not return my sentiments, or worse, was repelled by them, it could be the end of everything. No, I would not say anything for the moment, but that would not matter. I doubted I could ever keep a secret from Holmes, should he ever care to know it.

Whether he ever would care to know – and what his reaction might be if he did – that was a mystery for another day. I could not solve it on my own, though I alone might ultimately bear the consequences of it, if we both did not choose to reap the rewards.

That lay in the future; a sorrow or a joy for another day. I let my thoughts drift, listening to the sound of the train traveling over the rails.


	7. Liner notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a few "DVD extras" where I answer a few questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented, gave kudos, and asked questions! I really appreciate the support. I hope you enjoyed this!

_What inspired this story?_

Three things, really. First of all, I looked over at my story count on AO3 one day, and I realized that I was just a few stories away from hitting 221 ACD-based stories. I wanted the 221st to be something special, so I started looking around my brain for ideas. I was rereading SPEC and a line of Helen Stoner’s jumped out at me: “I believe she died of fear.” And I thought to myself, what if she was right? That was the genesis of the idea. The last thing was that as much as I love SPEC for the wonderful interactions between Holmes and Watson in it, and the interesting set up with Helen Stoner, the actual mechanics of the mystery and the murder don’t hold up well in the 21st century. There’s a lot of problematic elements throughout, some artifacts of its time, and some rather less easily excused. So I decided to give rewriting it in the context of my Written in the Blood AU a try. I’ve undoubtedly made just as many mistakes as Doyle did, just hopefully in different directions.

_Had you always planned a sequel to "Written in the Blood", or did this idea take you by surprise? _

I really liked that AU, and I always hoped to return to it someday. When the idea of Julia Stoner actually dying of fear as her twin thought, this AU world seemed like a good fit for that.

_I seem to detect a bit of Granada in this._

Guilty as charged. Granada’s interpretation of SPEC has some absolutely brilliant moments between Jeremy Brett and David Burke. Burke’s Watson is far more active in gathering information than Watson is in the original story, and Brett’s Holmes makes you feel the danger and the creeping horror of the piece.

_I certainly hope you plan another installment NOW. Please?_

No plans at the moment, but I have a few ideas flittering around. We’ll see what happens.

_Where did the Egyptology come from?_

There was a huge rage for Egyptian artifacts and mummies in the Victorian era, and medical students of the time really did go to mummy unwrappings to learn anatomy. But it was the snake around Roylott’s head that really gave me the idea – how could I turn that into something you might seen in this AU? Wait, what if it was a serpentine crown? And hey, both cheetahs and baboons are not only African animals, not Indian, they’re prominently featured in Egyptian art… And it ballooned from there.

_Why the laundry list of medical book titles?_

Because it let me sneak in some actual classics, some hints about mind, phobia, and fears, and a few tributes to some other authors.

_You're more inclined to post short entries in response to prompts than longer tales like this one. As a writer, which is more satisfying for you?_

Oh, I’m a novelist by inclination far more than I’m a short story writer. I tend to run on and on and on when left to my own devices. But long stories take time, and it's something I'm always short on. One of the reasons I started writing drabbles was to practice the self-discipline it takes to convey ideas and stories in a very small amount of words. That practice in tightening up my writing really helps, both in short stories and in longer ones.


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